


Dare (La La La)

by bloodsugar



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Kisses, Kissing, La Liga, M/M, basically just kissing, implied Sergio Ramos/Iker Casillas - Freeform, kiss, real madrid - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-17 08:40:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2303576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodsugar/pseuds/bloodsugar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Maybe it is that they’re both high on the sense of success. James doesn’t know the reasons, and he doesn’t know Cristiano well enough at that point to even remotely understand his convictions.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>OR The One In Which Cristiano Kisses James</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dare (La La La)

**Author's Note:**

> 'Oh no, she didn't!' You think. Well, friend, I did. I totally did. Last night's match was horrible and the only good thing about it was James x Cristiano. This ship is too sweet for me to ignore, so I ran with the compulsion and wrote this. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed imagining it. I mean, writing it. ;)

* * *

 

 

 

_**[A](http://www.metrolyrics.com/dare-la-la-la-lyrics-shakira.html)** ll of my life, too late_   
_Till you showed up with perfect timing_   
_Now here we are, **[y](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XkYAxGt-aUs)** ou rock it_   
_**[O](http://footiez.tumblr.com/tagged/107)** ur fingers are stuck in the socket_   
_It's just the nature, a game_   
_Get ready, we'll do it again_   
_Let's not recover, time to hangover_   
_When your eyes got me drunk I was sober_

_Is it true that you love me?_

_I dare you to kiss me_

_With everyone watching_

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

Cristiano kisses him for the first time after their UEFA Super Cup win against Sevilla. Maybe it is that they’re both high on the sense of success, maybe it is because James was pretty much the last to lift the cup and Cris wants to show him that he isn’t last in the ways that matter. James doesn’t know the reasons, and he doesn’t know Cristiano well enough at that point to even remotely understand his convictions. That is why his heart flutters in confusion when in the locker room - with their team mates smiling around them and Toni hugging the cup close while updating his Facebook status, Cris comes right up to James and plants a big one on his cheek. It is unrestrained, it is obvious, it is somehow for show and not at all. It is everything Cristiano appears to be and not be at the same time. James’ heart jumps to his throat for a brief moment, and then they’re both laughing like everything is so funny they can’t help themselves. Next to them Iker, with Sergio in tow take selfies with their medals. James squeezes Cris’ side, his gaze meets Cristiano’s – bright, intelligent, intent – and that is when James knows that he has made the best decision of his life accepting Real’s transfer offer.

 

 

~~

 

 

James doesn’t expect it to happen again, but it does. The next time Cris kisses him is during their losing streak. This is Real Madrid, and none of them are used to losing games, let alone losing consecutive ones, at that. They have pride, but that is not what ends up hurting when they lose the Spanish Supercopa to Atletico Madrid. It is their genuine love for football that suffers, and they’ve betrayed their fans to boot. James’ goal in the first leg of the final meant everything, and eventually nothing at the same time. Still, it remains his first goal for Real, and he will treasure the bittersweet memory of it. James is not that familiar with La Liga, but he knows it’s a big deal that they lose a bunch of matches in it.

 

While leaving the pitch, Karim and Gareth walking close behind him, James hears Sergio tell an interviewer that it is only the beginning of the season and they will get back in stride very soon, because they’re serious players and they have to. For all his usual optimism, James finds that difficult to believe. There is a weight in his chest when he showers and changes; he knows he is pouting but he can’t help himself. On top of it all, he got a yellow card. He never gets those, he isn’t that type of player, but guess this ref thought he was diving. Idly, James wonders how many yellow cards Neymar has gotten recently.

He is getting ready to leave when Cris comes to him, his hand firm and heavy on James’ shoulder. In his short time here at Madrid James can’t remember seeing Cris approach anybody after a loss to console them. Usually, Cristiano is on the side, discussing the details of the game with the boss or ranting about bullshit ref choices to Fabio. This time, Cris’ argument was on the pitch, earning himself a yellow for arguing over James’ yellow.

 

“You got a yellow card, too.” James mumbles, as if he is only realizing it now, the _‘for me’_ remaining implied, if that. Cristiano contemplates him with a look, barely tilting his head in a nod. James can vaguely tell that he probably still looks like a confused puppy, with this never ending pout. This is the beginning of his Real career and he isn’t starting it off on a good note – his disappointment is right there to be seen, for Cris’ viewing displeasure.

 

James is bending down to tie his shoe when he notices that Cristiano hasn’t moved away nor does he seem to be going anywhere. James abandons his shoes, sighs heavily, and then looks up at Cris. “Why did we lose?” he asks, and it’s a stupid question, even stupider to be aiming it at the best player in the world who is even less used to losing than he is. James doesn’t have the conviction to even kick himself internally. But he doesn’t have long to antagonize, because Cristiano’s unreadable face is getting closer. James doesn’t think, and then he is being kissed on the lips, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world. It is a soft peck, gentle and soothing, and in a way it serves its purpose of making the weight disappear. Cris’ lips are as soft as the kiss itself and James is somehow less confused than he was before when Cristiano pulls away with a little smile.

James looks after him for a moment before resuming to tie his shoe laces, and then getting home to his baby daughter. He actually manages not to think much about this loss before he goes to bed that night – they will have plenty of wins to compensate it anyway, Ramos was right, it is only the beginning of the season.

 

 

~~

 

 

The next time Cristiano kisses him, it is when their losing streak is finally broken. It’s a Champion’s League match against Basel, and James is more than a little relieved to ditch the bad luck and secure their spot at the top. He thinks his team mates are inspired to do a better job this time around because they’re the Cup holders, and it would be a proper disgrace if they did lose the very first Champion’s League match of the season. Thankfully, they don’t. With their defense doing their job, and Toni and Luka being particularly exceptional in midfield, James assists Cristiano’s goal in the first half. He’s running up to Cris like an excited child, basically throwing himself in the taller man’s arms, with Gareth close behind. The three of them end up being smashed together in the group hug, with the onslaught of their team mates’ bodies. Gareth is shifting away, James getting ready to do the same, when he feels Cristiano’s lips at his neck, grazing his skin. Even without looking, James can tell Cris is smiling. They all are, he just scored their first CL goal after all. Still, as James is running back into position mid-field, he somehow can’t muster a look back at Cristiano.

 

 

~~

 

 

Cris throws a belated “Cristiano Ronaldo – UEFA Best Player in Europe” party and James is invited. He feels like a little boy again, with the excitement in his chest. Cristiano is one of his idols and role models in football, and for the most part James still can’t believe he is even on the same team as this man, let alone the implications of it. Not only do they get to play together, practice together; now James is also attending Cristiano’s fancy party. He doesn’t actually know how fancy or not Cris’ parties are, so he just puts on a pair of jeans and a nice T-shirt and hopes the other guests are not wearing tuxedos or something.

 

James arrives half an hour early, having misjudged Madrid traffic, and clearly needing a lesson in what ‘fashionably late’ entails. There are a handful of people at Cristiano’s house, Cris included of course as the host – Fabio and Marcelo are there, chatting in Portuguese on the couch; Sergio and Iker appear to have just arrived seconds before James himself; and Gareth is also there surrounded by women James does not know and has a feeling will not get the chance to know for the remainder of this evening. The UEFA award is displayed in a glass container in the living room for everyone to see and admire, and everything around it looks shiny. James does admire it, wistfully, wondering if he will ever have one of these as well. He sure hopes so.

 

Cristiano, having disappeared briefly after greeting him at the door, comes to James again, asking for his help in the kitchen. The catering staff is surprisingly modest, maybe a couple of people at the most, and James likes the feeling of coziness that brings to the party. It doesn’t feel as pretentious as James expected it to be, but then again that could be just because he was so eager to arrive early.

 

James is opening a bottle of Pinot Grigio, with Cristiano lining up more wine to be opened for the guests, when the serving staff clears out of the kitchen, with trays of finger sandwiches perfectly balanced in their hands. The silence is very comfortable, even with James sneaking glances at Cristiano, and smiling to himself. Finally, he speaks up, walking the line between enthusiastic fanboy and polite guest. “I love your house.” He says, and he does mean it – it may not be his personal style, but everything surrounding him screams Cristiano Ronaldo, and James does like Cristiano Ronaldo, even with his limited first hand knowledge of the man.

 

Cris snorts and his lips curl into a smirk as he opens a bottle of Chardonnay, then regards James with an amused look. “Too shiny, right?” he says, and the playful note in his voice is not lost on James, who gets flustered under his gaze. Cristiano is smart and unapologetic, and clearly James has subconsciously underestimated his self-awareness. He stares at Cristiano – his idol now quickly transforming into a quite real human being in front of him – and eventually smiles sheepishly.

 

“Yeah, a little.” He says honestly. He searches Cris’ eyes for signs of offense or annoyance, and finds none. “But I still like it.” He adds then, feeling encouraged to open up. Cristiano nods at this, looking satisfied, and James somehow knows that satisfaction has nothing to do with the house.

 

Cris pushes a couple of bottles of rose wine toward him. “Open these for me, will you?” He says silkily, and if before James would have thought it was more of an order, this time it actually does sound like a question. He feels a compulsion to say _yes, of course, yes_ , but overcomes it with difficulty under Cristiano’s gaze, as he pops the bottles open one after another. They must be expecting a ton more people or at least a bunch of alcoholics if 10 bottles of wine are barely enough for now.

 

James doesn’t mean to pry but he is curious. “How many people did you invite?” he asks, leaning on the counter now that he’s done with the wine. Now beside him, Cris does not answer right away but busies himself with taking out two wine glasses and setting them next to James. “Rose, white or red?” he asks, and up close James seems to note their height difference for the first time. It never made an impression on him on the pitch before, not even during practice when they’d chat about whatever, but it does now. Cristiano’s broad shoulders should perhaps add to an intimidating sensation but James feels nothing of the sort. “Rose.” He answers finally, stumbling over the word as though he’s not sure of his choice. Cris pours him a glass regardless, and when he is handing it to James, their fingers brush together.

 

“So… will it be a full house?” James asks after a sip of the rather delicious wine, unable to help his curiosity. Cristiano chuckles shortly into his glass, and then shakes his head a little. “Not really,” he says, his tone teasing “It is a big house.”

 

James stiffens despite himself, then breaks into a wide smile. “You’re just trying to embarrass me, aren’t you?” he asks, shaking his head in disapproval. Christiano shrugs, but something about his expression is mischievous. “I know it takes some getting used to.” He says, leaning into James’ personal space with ease James envies.

 

“What does?” James isn’t asking for confirmation now, he’s asking for details. He takes another sip of the wine and meets Cris’ eyes readily. He wants to know who Cristiano is, because from what he has seen so far, there is little – if anything - about the man behind the name that is not to like.

 

Cris hums, his gaze traveling easily around the room, then over James’ body and up to his face. To James’ expectant look, he answers by casually leaning in and pressing their lips together in a kiss not unlike the one they shared in the locker room after that loss. This time Cristiano’s lips linger on James’, and if James didn’t know better he would say there is a sense of longing. When Cris withdraws this time around, James is confused, but he can’t form a question in his head, let alone ask one. His lips tingle some, and he can pretend it’s from the wine.

 

There is a moment in which they’re just looking into each other’s eyes, and then Cristiano finally answers him. “How I present myself.” He says, and James notes that his tone is a notch lower than before. He wonders if Cris is not used to talking about himself when there aren’t cameras on him or fans surrounding him. Cristiano is right though, how he presents himself takes some getting used to indeed. But James can see beyond that, somehow, and wonders how many more chances he will have to do that, besides tonight.

 

The staff comes back for the rest of the finger sandwiches then, but they are quick to leave. The doorbell rings – _more guests_ , James thinks – and Cristiano sets his glass down on the counter top. “Excuse me.” He says, politely, the air between them changing. James straightens up as well, ready to re-join his team mates in the living room, when Cris bends down and kisses him again. It is the briefest of pecks, and Cristiano is gone in a second, leaving James’ lips tingling once more.

 

James stands there, his mind drawing a blank, before the arrival of Fabio and Marcelo into the kitchen shakes him out of it. So his team mate and idol kisses him sometimes. James shrugs it off, along with the skipped heart beat in his chest, and joins his team mates for a drink, taking the opportunity to practice his Portuguese.

 

 

~~

 

 

They have a couple of practice sessions before the match against Deportivo. Since it’s La Liga again, there is tension on the first day of practice, that escalates in a notable way by the time they’re all tired and sweaty. Danni Carvajal is trying to negotiate some playing time for himself despite his injury, with Ancelotti on the side of the pitch, while Iker is practicing. Save for them, everyone else is more or less lying on the grass and sending positive thoughts out in the universe. Or maybe that’s just James, who at this point is willing to even pray if it means that everyone will relax about the damn match and just practice as they normally would. But losing La Liga matches has burdened his team mates, and James can relate. Even Toni, whose head is mainly in the Germany NT games, seems to be thirsty for a win and hungry for blood if they don’t get it. They will win though, they have to.

 

James spends their break time looking for clouds in the clear sky, still getting accustomed to Spanish weather. He may be Colombian but he got used to the climate in Monaco and the days now definitely seem hotter for him. But then again, that just might be the close proximity with his team mates – body heat and all. He casts a look to his side where Gareth and Cristiano are deep into a conversation in English. James understands approximately nothing of it, except that Cris has a pretty heavy accent even for a man who spent all those years in England. Just as he is thinking this, of course, with excellent timing, Cristiano returns his look, eyes boring into James’ like he’s sending him a telepathic message. James shifts his gaze away under the intensity, just barely catching Cris’ smile. James doesn’t return the smile, so he spends the next ten minutes smiling at the sky instead.

 

Practice resumes, and they split in teams this time, going against each other. Everyone tries to get into sync with their team mates – defenders vs midfielders – their trainer tells them they need to do this because they’re lacking in sync. James is inclined to agree, so he focuses on completing as many passes as he can between himself, Karim, Gareth, Toni and Cris. It is clumsy in the beginning, evidence of this lack of sync brought to their attention, but as they continue, they get better. On the other half of the pitch, Raphaël, Sergio and Pepe seem to be struggling with Fabio’s inclination to abandon his defensive position in favor of playing in midfield. James takes the opportunities given to him and actually manages to score a goal. Between Iker’s hushed “Puta madre!” and Sergio’s lecture to Fabio, Gareth comes to pat James on the back. “Good job!” he tells him in English, with a broad smile, and _that_ James understands.

 

He bumps into Cristiano before they resume the match simulation, and apologizes. Cris waves him off and grabs him by the neck, bringing James in close. He kisses James’ temple and squeezes his shoulder. “Keep this up, you’ll be lifting another cup in no time.” Cristiano is smiling bright as the sun when James does manage a look up at him. James can’t help but smile back, it’s just so difficult not to.

 

 

  
~~

 

 

On the day before the next La Liga match, Cristiano offers to drive James to practice. James doesn’t enjoy driving in Madrid particularly much, and he has seen Cris drive Fabio to training before, so he figures why not. He answers Cristiano’s text with a thumbs up emoticon and makes sure he is ready and at the door by the time Cris honks – short and to the point – from outside.

 

Cristiano’s Lamborghini, like everything of his, is expensive and shiny and if James isn’t careful, he can feel dwarfed before he even gets in the car. Thankfully, he is more secure than that, and he is fine with his not so expensive car – it was an investment as it is. And yet when he does get in the passenger’s seat and closes the door, he feels like he has entered auto heaven. Everything is leather and everything is gorgeous and comfortable. James hasn’t really been in a car like this before, he never had interest in expensive cars to begin with, but somehow he finds himself in love with it. He shakes his head to himself – he’s not in love with an overpriced car, for God’s sakes - and focuses his attention on Cristiano instead.

With his sunglasses on, despite the Lamborghini’s dark windows and the sun’s futile attempts at blinding them, Cristiano looks almost equally as fancy as the car he is driving. His shirt is black as well, tight fitting enough for James to see and unsuccessfully ignore Cris’ broad muscular chest. Cristiano responds to James’ “Hey, thanks for picking me up.” with an easy nod, his lips curled into a smile. James finds himself wishing he could see Cris’ eyes because everything feels remotely surreal right now.

 

“Where is Fabio?” He asks, as Cristiano starts the car – the engine’s smooth purr is so quiet James can hear his own thoughts – and backs out of the drive way. They’re on the street and Cris has shifted to forth gear by the time he answers coolly. “Took his own car today, wasn’t very happy about it.” James can’t help but smile as his gaze follows Cristiano’s cocky little grin, followed by the older man petting the dashboard in front of him idly. “He likes my baby.”

 

James can relate. “Well, your baby is amazing.” He says, and he’s not even humoring Cristiano, this car really is something. He reclines back into the leather seat and lets out a long sigh. “I could fall asleep here.” He mutters, only to receive another one of Cris’ amused snorts.

 

They drive in silence for the most part, only interrupted once by Cristiano urging James to stay awake, his voice teasing. James rolls his eyes at him, but something inside his chest flutters in response to whatever Cris is doing. In a way, James really envies how everything Cristiano does or says can end up sounding so smooth and easy and charming. He wonders what Cris’ secret is.

 

They reach Santiago Bernabéu in record time, which is no surprise of course. James thinks he could get used to this, but there is no way he is asking Cristiano to drive him to practice every time, so he unbuckles his seat belt without saying anything. Cris is parking and James is watching him do it – with one hand on the wheel and the other on the stick shift Cristiano looks so natural and confident, James has to wonder if he’s somehow coming out of a Lamborghini commercial video. He’s lost enough in that thought that he feels awkward when having switched the engine off; Cris turns to him. James shifts in his seat, ready to open the door and get out, the ‘thank you’ ready on his lips, when Cristiano leans in. There are people just outside, going in and out of the stadium. If they turn and look hard enough through the glass, they'd probably be able to see them. And yet...

 

This time around, James is leaning into it too.  It’s so natural, a compulsion, that he is barely aware of it himself. Perhaps he is seduced by his surroundings – this insanely expensive, sexy car; perhaps it is Cristiano’s attitude and genuine charm. James doesn’t know, and in the haze of his mind, he doesn’t want to know either.

 

Their lips meet easily, the press together light and unhurried, their heads tilted at perfectly different angles as they kiss. James isn’t pulling back, and Cris is definitely not pulling back because next thing James knows he’s parting his lips for Cristiano’s tongue and James is tasting him, really tasting Cristiano for the first time. It’s smooth and intuitive and it lasts an eternity – their lips meet again with ease, tongues dancing together on pure instinct. It’s sleek, it’s like they’ve done this a million times before. James is vaguely aware of the little moan he lets into Cristiano’s mouth, and he doesn’t have the clarity to feel coy about it.

 

When they do break apart, James looks at Cristiano through hooded eyelids, a satisfied hum stuck in his throat. He is met with Cris’ sunglasses, and that doesn’t agree with him. Out of character, driven by the haze this kiss has put him into, he reaches for Cristiano’s sunglasses and pulls them off of his face, setting them on the dashboard. Cris’ eyes – both sharp and glazed over, a perfect contradiction – meet his, and James is the one kissing Cristiano now. Their bodies aren’t touching, they’re nowhere near a romantic context, and it’s still the kiss of James’ life. Cris’ lips are warm, soft and insistent against his, and with every time they meet James’, the more James wants of Cristiano. The burn is slow, and patient, and steady, but it is a burn – growing slightly with every flick of Cris’ tongue against his.

 

Cristiano ends it too soon, and if James was less of a man, he would whimper with it. Instead, he reigns himself in to his best ability, left wanting more but he hopes not obvious about it. Cris reaches for James’ cheek, stroking his jawline with his fingertips as he smiles at James. His smile is perfect up close and James feels like this is the first time he really sees it. He reaches for Cristiano, compelled by the urge to touch him, and squeezes Cris’ thigh briefly, the firm muscle underneath his fingertips twitching. James wants to freeze this moment in time so he has the opportunity to replay it and understand it. Instead, he leans into Cristiano’s touch and smiles.

 

 

At training, they’re all better than the day before. Today’s trainer tells them they can easily win as long as they make sure they’re in sync. He instructs Gareth, Toni and Karim to practice their dynamic a bit more so it runs as smoothly as possible, then turns to James and Cristiano. “You work together well, keep it up. Cristiano, Ancelotti said ‘Don’t argue with the referee this time’” He says.

 

James nods dutifully, remembering Cris’ yellow card from the previous La Liga match. Next to him, Cristiano reaches for James’ arm and gives it a squeeze. “I’m not making any promises.” He says, stance wide and tone cocky, before walking off to where Marcelo and the other defenders are practicing. James, momentarily stuck watching after him manages to shrug his shoulders in answer to the trainer’s what-the-hell expression.

 

A couple of hours later, after they’re done practicing, Cristiano drives James back home as promised. James lingers in the car, hesitating, unsure of what he wants to do, before he parts with Cris with a thank you. The older man drives off, fast and confident and James frowns all the way into the house, feeling regretful and irritated with himself. It’s not that he should have kissed Cristiano, right? They both have partners, even if he doesn’t know the details of Cris’ relationship to that model girl. Yet the feeling nags at him for hours, even when James tries to take a nap with his daughter in the late afternoon hours.

 

He is distracting himself with making dinner, when is phone rings. _Cristiano Ronaldo_ James hurries to pick up before he can create a conversation in his head and over-analyze it.

 

“Hello?” he starts in Spanish, then switches to Portuguese “How are you?”

 

“Hello. I’m very good, how are you?” Cris answers in Portuguese as well; his voice is smooth like honey, and James can practically see him smirking. It brings the burn back to James’ chest in full force.

 

“I’m alright…” James trails off, considering just coming out with it and telling Cris to come back so they can hang out. They haven’t really done much of that at all, save for the party Cris threw himself after his UEFA award win.

  
Cristiano chuckles on the other end, and James wonders if he sounded petulant with his reply. Then before he can ask, Cris speaks up again, smooth as ever, if a bit quieter. “You know, next time, you can kiss me first.”

 

James is smiling so much that he forgets to respond. Then again, his smile is perhaps enough of an answer.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
